


Replay

by AnathemaAuthoress



Category: Silent Hill (Video Game Series)
Genre: Experimental writing, Gift Fic, Guilt is infectious, M/M, One-Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-09
Updated: 2018-04-09
Packaged: 2019-04-20 14:31:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14263071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnathemaAuthoress/pseuds/AnathemaAuthoress
Summary: He feels like he's been here before.





	Replay

James got hit with the strangest sensation he'd been here before. Not the town, for he knew he'd been there many times in the past and that was the very reason for his visit. Rather like he'd been in this spot, in this haze, in this moment.  


He could barely see through the fog but he kept moving forward. A cold chill ran down his spine that wasn't brought on by the weather. In fact, it was uncustomarily warm for the end of fall. Or was it still spring? He couldn't really recall and it didn't seem distinct enough to prompt his thoughts to linger.  


It was chilly on the inside and he might have wrapped his arms about himself save for the little aid it would provide. He looked around but still nothing could be made of the burry patterns of dilapidated shutters barely smudging through the ashen wind. No place he wanted to go. Keep moving. Don't look too closely.  


Then he heard the squealing. Like the wail of a mechanical creature begging for its life. High and sharp, it cut through like the howl of the wind.  
James knew to run but instead he turned toward the sound and waited, passive, unable to self-motivate. He gaped in awe. Bystander syndrome. He was watching his own despair and part of him knew what was coming.  


Then it was upon him. Wretched thing with bulging veins poking through flesh, poking through fog. Sick and blustering thing with howling blade and posture six egos tall. Putrid thing that reeked like death and sex and vomit lining the inside of lips for too long.  


Passive man that stood trembling. Pathetic dreg with eyes flittering, fingers flexing for flashlight in pocket. Idiot dolt that let it skitter as he turned late, much too late.  


The thing like a man with pectorals and hands–hands that wrapped around his waist–with a head like an iron maiden but angled down to point back at those that observed, he–it?–he had come to bestow the penalty for running too slowly. For not running at all. You can't face your fears if you look right through them, it's almost worse than fleeing.

James let out a scream, it ripped from his lungs and should have carried but it reverberated around him, the fog like an echo-chamber. One blade hit the ground with a squeal and a clatter while another was brandished. Clothing peeled away as easily as flesh, the flesh of rind from fruit, the flesh of logic from the mind. That second blade pierced him and the screams turned silent.  


James's eyes bulged wide, the red streaks of pounding arteries webbed around like fingers clasping. Capillaries bursting turned skin the color of raw meat. Raw and bloody.  


In and out, the pounding like the beating of a heart. It was slick by method but eased no tension. His thighs trembled, but didn't he love it so? Hadn't he always loved the spread of relenting flesh? Wasn't it worth so much more than an organ pumping desperate to survive?  


The monster was ridged as he was unforgiving, body hard. Iron. Stabbing, unfeeling steel. Hips like a crank, rolling through the motions, spilling pulp to the ground as knees, both sets, crunched pavement. Fingers and toes curled to snap nails against the unforgiving texture. Everything both sticky and slick, a tar pit opening up to swallow him, to drag him down.  


"Hck!" A single sound, mouth agape, no air. A little burst of wicked pleasure made his spine crack. Another little whisper. Both pleas for release, but there is no escape. For even when the pain ebbs, the feeling remains. Even when the white fog turns black it will always turn back again.  
Because he can run from the moment; any moment either future or past. He can run or he can wait. He can see or he may close his eyes. Sometimes the monster fills him. Sometimes it falls apart.  


He can sail away in swamp or blood, the ending is always the same. Because there is no leaving Silent Hill.

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this for the love of my life because he's obsessed with this series. I thought it might be a good way to break in my new account. I hope it's not too artsy, I don't always write this way (but I do a lot). XD


End file.
